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Old Things

“I continue to be interested in new things that seem old, and old things that seem new.” Jacquelin T. Robinson

It's a bit daunting to know that the things you grew up with are now considered antiques—or I should say, “mid-century modern.” What does that make me, I wonder. Well if you want to take a walk down memory lane, I have just the place for you. It's called, “What's On 2^nd,” and is located on 2^nd Ave. North in Birmingham. It's not your grandmother's antique store with loads of Baroque furniture and pale green Jadeite coffee mugs. No, as the owners say, it's a nostalgia shop. It has a little bit of everything collectible, and lots of certain things—like vintage postcards, hundreds of LP records, tons of GI Joe,

Ninja Turtles, and Johnny West action figures, and some oddities that you won't see anywhere else. Old tin toys from the 30's and 40's sit cheek to jowl with blow-mold Santas and framed movie posters. Everywhere you look there is a vintage compact or cigarette lighter, next to a camera from the 50's, or a rusting gasoline or beer sign. There are pretty things and ugly things, tobacco tins from the 1930's next to African masks, nested against old apothecary bottles. There are photographs from the 1920's and video games from the 80's. Whatever you played with or dearly loved in your childhood, regardless of when your childhood was, you'll find there—three floors overflowing with memories.

The inventory is ever-changing because the material that comes in is on the backs, and in the trunks, and truck beds of individuals as assorted as the merchandise they bring. “Pickers” from all walks of life come through the doors and announce, “I have some old...whatever...that I thought you might be interested in.” You never know, but they seem to come in bunches the owners refer to as “Picker Palooza” days. One day there will be nothing, and the next day, twenty folks back-to-back and lined up waiting for inspection. Some of them will have bric-a-brac they picked up at a thrift store or out of an auctioned storage unit, others will have grandmother's old fur coats, and someone else will bring leather-bound first edition books from the turn of the century.

Lots of folks come in with their own toy or sports card collection they've been saving all their lives, and just this second decided to get rid of it. One day when I was in the shop, someone delivered forty pounds of vintage costume jewelry from their great-aunt's house, “We're trying to clean out her house to sell, and don't have any use for this stuff.” I saw the glint in the owner's eye! "Oh, well, I might be interested. How much were you hoping to get for it?" And so the negotiations began. This is as close to the marketplace in "Old Algiers" as you'll find in America.

If you're ever in Birmingham, and you want some place to hang out for a few hours, come on by. You don't have to buy anything. You can just look and look and remember and remember. It's a happy place that takes you back to that happy kid that still lives in you.

Jane

Honest Southern Speech

Southern Dialect

“At any one time language is a kaleidoscope of styles, genres and dialects.”

David Crystal

The South, and particularly the Appalachian mountain regions of the South, have a unique dialect that is unmistakable, and sometimes incomprehensible to others. I used the dialect growing up because it was what I heard around me, and quite frankly, I love it even today. I tend to drop back into it when I want to truly express myself. For generations, people have butchered the Southern dialect, and assumed that anyone who spoke it was simply ignorant. When we want to sound stupid we pull out the “ain't” and the dropped g's and reconstructed word order, but the Southern dialect is simply one variant of American English, as are the New England and the Mid-Western dialects.

The mountain dialect that I grew up with was a combination of Elizabethan, Scottish, and Anglo-Scottish border dialects. It is as uniquely American as the Valley-speak that Californians seem to favor. When I grew up in the mountains of North Carolina, the rougher forms were common. The dropped or added R's in words such as hollow, usually pronounced “holla” if it's an empty thing, or “holler” is you mean a piece of ground between two mountains. The added R's could also show up in words such as wash, which became “warsh”. The z sound in contractions, became a dn't sound, as in wasn't to “wadn't” or isn't to “idn't”. In all Southern speech, it is common to drop the g at the end of words such as doing—doin' and going—goin'. The one I hear most here in Alabama is mixed tenses, such as seen for saw, as in “I seen him the other day.” I have to admit, that one drives me a little crazy. But there are some that I like a lot, such as adding un to pronouns and adjectives, such as “young-un” for child, or “big-un” for big one, as in “I caught me a fish! It was a big-un, too.” And, of course the ubiquitous y'all, for you all.

But when I was growing up, there were words in the lexicon that no one else used. Such things as “Afeared” for afraid, and “airish” for cool or chilly. I heard people say, “That's chancy,” meaning doubtful or risky, and “dope” for soda, as in “Bring me a dope when you come back.” A pancake was referred to as a “flannel cake” and a red squirrel as a “boomer,” and someone you don't like might be called a “peckerwood,” a “piss-ant,” or an “idjit.” That pronunciation for idiot comes directly from Ireland. “I'll be back directly,” meant, “See you later,” and a brown paper bag was a “poke.” The word, “recon”, replaced suppose, as in, “You recon we'll get some rain today?” And to carry something was to “tote” it.

The Southern dialect is hardly spoken by educated people anymore, and I'll be honest, I miss it. I love the things that make every region of this country unique. The Valley-girl dialect sounds just as dissonant to my ears as Southern speak sounds to yours, but in a good way, an interesting way. I had a friend from Massachusetts when I was a young woman, and I quickly picked up her lapsed r's and long a's. And I dare say, she learned a few new words from me. I will be glad for the day that we drop our disdain for differences and instead love and embrace them.

                                                                  Jane

My Quilts

Creative Clutter

“Creative clutter is better than idle neatness!”

Most of the quilts I make are neither useful nor warm. They are wall quilts, and most are designed for the person who commissions them and the place where they will hang. They range from strange to sublime,

 and from secular to sacred.

 I don't typically cut pieces ahead of time, I just begin with an idea. Unlike most quilters, I don't draw my patterns before I begin—mostly because I don't know what they will be until I am in the middle of them. My process is what I refer to as 'organic'. It takes shape as I go along. My dear mother, the precision quilter, would look at whatever I was doing, turn her head one way and then the other, and ask, “What does it mean, Jane?” I would respond, “Who knows!”

If I make a quilt to go on a bed, which I don't often do, it is only out of duress and need of cash. I have made two queen-sized from athletic jerseys and two king-sized for my son's wedding gifts, and one for myself because I needed cover. Otherwise I stay away from huge quilts because they take too long and I lose interest about half-way through. I find I get into trouble when someone wants a particular pattern and particular size. Because my process is so organic, what comes out is often not what they envisioned. I do best and people are happier with the finished product, when they just give me some color guidance, show me the space where the quilt will hang, and then back off and let me do my thing. I like to fashion quilts around the interests of the people. This one, for instance was made for a lake house.

I also like to combine quilting with embroidery. I really enjoy drawing with colorful thread; making pictures with it. It is time consuming, but like my grandmother, I don't do well with idle hands, so when I sit down to watch television, I'm also stitching.

And, finally, I sometimes like to paint a design and then quilt it. These were made as a triptic for a friend from Australia. He was homesick and wanted something like the traditional art of the Aboriginal people.

A couple of years ago, my friend, Isie, brought me a tall stack of books of sample fabrics from her daughter, who is an interior decorator. Isie knows I like to “recycle and repurpose” things. I cut all those small blocks of sample fabrics off their cards, painstakingly pulled off the paper backing, and made a quilt. I also haunt thrift stores for used clothing made from interesting or vintage fabric and incorporate them into my quilts. Occasionally, I find a trove of vintage fabric, as I did when I cleaned out my mother's house after her death. Remnants of fabrics dating all the way back to when I was a child (hundreds of years ago) were stored in boxes in her basement. I gleefully brought those home and have doled them out sparingly into all sorts of creations.

All this is to say, that while every generation has a different motivation for making quilts, we have managed to continue a family tradition for longer than one hundred years. I may be the last, so I have to make it count.

                                                 Jane

Plain and Simple

“Twenty years ago I walked into Latham's Men's Store in Sag Harbor, New York, and saw old quilts used as a background for men's tweeds. I had never seen quilts like that. Odd color combinations. Deep saturated solid colors: purple, mauve, green, brown, magenta, electric blue, red. Simple geometric forms: squares, diamonds, rectangle. A patina of use emanated from them. They spoke directly to me. They knew something. They went straight to my heart.”

                                               Sue Bender (Plain and Simple)

Thus began Sue Bender's little book about her journey to Amish country to learn about their quilts. As with all art, quilts have a way of grabbing hold of you and not letting go. Amish women make quilts from the same fabrics they use to make their clothing, so there is a limited palette. And they use only simple geometric shapes and solid colors. You will never see a bold plaid or even a flash of batik in an Amish quilt. But oh, my, what they can do with those few colors and shapes!

The quilt above is one of my mother's unquilted tops. It is made entirely from diamonds and triangles, but you can see what is possible with such simplicity when colors and textures are varied. I pull this top out about once a year and study it. It helps me to better understand my mother. She was a woman of her time, who married at eighteen, seven days before the bombing of Pearl Harbor. By the time my father shipped out a year later, she had a baby girl. She never worked outside the home, and was just about as unsophisticated as anyone I have ever known. Her name was Virginia.

In the years of my growing up with two sisters, one who was severely disabled with cerebral palsy, Mother spent her days working—cooking three meals a day, washing the never-ending laundry that had to be hung on lines outside because we didn't have a clothes dryer. I still remember our crinoline petticoats hanging, stiff with starch, on the backyard clothesline. Except for shoes and coats, she made all our clothes. Sewing was as close to a creative life as she came, and most of that was out of necessity. I remember her first electric sewing machine, a gift from my father in the 1950's—a White, in a little wooden case. It was still in her house, held together with duct-tape, when she died five years ago—and it still worked!

When my sister, Jerrie, and I were finally out of the house, Mother began to make things just for the delight she took in making them. This quilt top is a case in point. It's huge! Larger than a king-sized bed. And every stitch is hand-made. It seems as though she started and just couldn't stop. It is bold, and simple, and breath taking in its size and color. It grabs hold of me and speaks directly to my heart. I hope it speaks to yours, too.

Jane

Quilt-maker's Daughter

I learned to quilt by examining my grandmother's quilts. When I was young, quilts were just a part of our lives. In winter, there were several on every bed and nobody, including myself, thought too much about them. My great aunts were quilters, as well as my great grandmothers, my grandmother, and eventually, my mother.

My great grandmothers made quilts out of whatever they had, which included the proverbial flour sacks, worn out work pants and old sport coats, as well as store-bought cotton cloth. Those quilts were made simply for keeping people warm in winter without much regard for symmetry or design. Most of the time, the layers were tied together, rather than stitched, because that was faster and required less work. Also because it's not easy to hand stitch heavy fabrics, and their quilts were filled with heavy cotton batting, or sometimes old wool blankets that had become too frayed for use.

                                                                                      

My great aunts, on the other hand, were master quilters—the kind who concentrate on the stitch patterns. They gave me a double wedding ring quilt as a wedding gift. It has an intricate pineapple pattern stitched in the center of every circle. I have studied this quilt for decades and still can't understand how they did the complicated design. I simply don't have the patience for such tedious work, but I'm truly glad they did. Their stitches give me a goal to shoot for.

My mother only began quilting in her middle years. She was something of a compulsive quilter, who would cut out every piece before she stitched anything. The idea of cutting one hundred eighty-four brown hexagons, two hundred twenty-six blue squares and three hundred ten cream trapezoids would be enough to send me screaming into the night, but that's what she did. And once she had hand-stitched them all together to make the top, she wasn't interested any more. She never quilted a single one, so I have several of her enormous quilt-tops, but only one completed quilt that one of her frustrated friends took to Louisiana and had quilted.

As I said before, I learned how to quilt by studying my grandmother's quilts. In fact, except for colors, I copied her butterfly quilt. I was in my twenties, newly married to a pediatric resident, so I spent a lot of time alone. We lived in Manhattan, and I was homesick for all things Southern and homey. For several years, I bought quarter-yards of fabric wherever we went and incorporated them into the quilt. Every bit of it was hand-stitched, because I fancied myself a purist. When the top was finished after literally years of working on one butterfly at a time, I had no idea how to quilt it. By then, we were living in Birmingham; I had two children and no time alone. So, someone gave me the name of an old woman who lived out in Ensley, a steel mill suburb of the city. I took the quilt and batting and backing to her and negotiated the fee for quilting it. When I picked it up several months later, it was in terrible condition. She had, I'm sure, done her best, but it was a total mess, bunched and ugly. I was so upset, I cried all the way home. I packed the quilt away in a box and stuck it on the highest shelf in a closet. I just couldn't bear to look at it. And that's where it lay for about ten years.

When I finally took it down from the shelf, it was because we were moving, and my marriage was coming unraveled. I took out every single stitch that the old woman had put in and I had paid for. I took the quilt apart and gave it new batting and backing, and then I painstakingly quilted it myself using real ivy leaves as stencils. When it was finished, I realized it had been twenty years in the making—from 1976 to 1996—the same length of time that my marriage had lasted. It was a symbol for me of all the ways women find to heal what is broken, and create something beautiful out of the pain that life serves up. It's on my bed today.

Jane

All things Southern.

To everyone who has faithfully tuned in to Spiritually Speaking for the last three years, I want to say a heartfelt thank you. I also want to invite you to read a new blog about all things Southern. I have grown increasingly weary of the way Southerners are portrayed in the media--think Honey Boo Boo, Duck Dynasty, and Paula Dean here. Even movies that I have loved, like A Time to Kill, The Blind Side, and The Help, have been mostly stories of hatred and enmity. And, while our history includes that dark aspect, all along the way there have been decent, everyday, salt-of-earth people, both black and white and Native, who have lived together in peace and community. Their stories have never been told. 

It seems the national appetite for anything to do with the South must be true to the stereotypes of Southerns as ignorant, bigoted, antisemitic and lazy. I do not deny that some of us fit the stereotype, but there are many who don't. My experience of the South is that it is filled with people of all races who are energetic, creative, dynamic, and intelligent.  We also have crafts and foods and music that are native to the region and have nothing to do with butter, bacon, grits, banjos or Jesus, though all those figure deeply in our roots. Most of the people that I know personally, people of all races, are educated, articulate, and thoughtful while still being deeply Southern and rooted in our shared history. I want to introduce them to you, bring their stories, their art, recipes and beliefs to light. In so doing, I hope to show a side of the South you may not know. 

I hope you will tune in. And I hope you will let me know how you feel about what you see here. I look forward to hearing from you. 

Jane